One midmorning, we climbed into our little French rental car - Paul behind the wheel, Jim seated Buddha-like next to him (still in kimono), and me accordioned into the backseat. Then we bumped down our old rutted driveway - the kind of road known as "a jeepable track" during the war - around the corner and up the hill to Placassier.
Chapter 9, Part 1: Ma Cherie, My Life in France.
Her use of words - words that aren't special or particularly elegant or anything like that, but just say what she means - makes me feel like I'm sitting beside her. I am better friends with her than with many, many writers. She's more honest, more human. I was reading this to my dad yesterday afternoon, and putting on a voice that was big and expressive and warm to get us more into it. Anyway, I reached this point, got to about "accordioned" and then we burst out laughing and laughed like naughty kids for five minutes. It got to him, too. He gets that she is honest, and I think that there is something about just knowing this that makes us more open to her. We're in love.